


Memory

by mementomoriarty



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Combeferre is uncombeferretable, Detox, Fluff, Grantaire has eidetic memory, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Memory Related, gratuitous literary references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:09:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mementomoriarty/pseuds/mementomoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has eidetic memory. </p>
<p>Or: Combeferre is uncomfortable with the sexual and romantic tension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, for those of you waiting for Misdirection updates, this is why I haven't updated in forever. That and schoolwork. This is what comes from my head canon that Grantaire has eidetic memory. Most of the mathematical facts were researched in depth, only the one about what percent of the world's pop. has eidetic memory was made up.

Grantaire liked to drink to forget. 

The thing is, Grantaire couldn’t forget. 

The only people that knew Grantaire couldn’t forget were Grantaire and Combeferre.

Well, Courfeyrac might have known, but Combeferre was the only one who figured it out, as far as he knew. But no one talked about the fact that Grantaire couldn’t forget, and though he figured out that Combeferre noticed, they both pretended like they didn’t know it.

But, Combeferre noticed. Grantaire was not as stupid as he sometimes pretended to be. Combeferre had seen him read by flipping through pages, anyone who wasn’t watching would assume he’d just skimmed, but Combeferre knew better. He’d seen the way he could recall anything anyone had said weeks after they’d said it—a bit of Jehan’s poetry or one of Courfeyrac’s jokes and almost all of Enjolras’ speeches—even when it looked like he wasn’t paying attention. He’d seen the way Grantaire could quote literature he read while drunk out of his mind. He’d also seen how careful Grantaire was about being sure no one caught it.

But Combeferre knew.

He figured it was only a matter of time until Enjolras put the pieces together as well.

He didn’t realize he’d be quite so uncomfortable when it happened.

He’d stayed after the meeting, in the back room of the cafe, because he and Enjolras needed to talk about a few things. However, somewhere in the middle of the meeting, Grantaire had, of course, started a fight, and Enjolras was not going to let it go until someone back down. The problem that arose when Enjolras and Grantaire fought was that neither of them liked to back down. And then...

“Why do you sit here, wasting your life at the bottom of a bottle?” Enjolras demanded, stepping up to Grantaire’s little table and yanking the bottle from his fingers violently.

“Why do you care?” Grantaire snarled back at him. “Don’t you think I’m _unhealthy_ and ‘quite frankly, pathetic’? Why shouldn’t some pathetic scum of the earth waste my life at the bottom of a bottle? _Give it back._ ”

Enjolras had stopped and stared. Combeferre looked up from his tablet and sighed. This wasn’t going to be particularly pretty.

“I didn’t say that.” Enjolras said, gripping the bottle so tightly his knuckles began to turn white.

“No.” R answered, his voice quiet. “But I’m sure I’m not wrong.”

“No, shut up.” Enjolras snapped, beginning to pace, slamming the bottle beside Combeferre on the table, silently telling him to keep it away from Grantaire. “I didn’t say that.”

“It really doesn’t matter.”

“Actually, I think it does. I didn’t _say_ that. I wrote it, in an email to Courfeyrac. In concern for you, mind you. Weeks ago. Did he show it to you?”

“No. Enjolras—”

“Grantaire, where did you see those words?” He demanded, voice sharp.

“I saw them. Courfeyrac had them pulled up on his laptop one time when I was over.”

“And you decided since it had your name in it, it was fine for you to read?”

“Enjolras, maybe you should...” Combeferre interrupted, quietly. “Not.” He nodded to Grantaire, who was looking between the two of them with a panicked expression.

Enjolras snapped his fingers in front of Grantaire’s nose, drawing his full attention to the golden man’s face, while pointedly ignoring Combeferre. Grantaire stared at him, his eyes wide and a little bit terrified. “I asked you a question and I will have an answer.”

“I didn’t read it.”

“You didn’t.” Enjolras murmured, his voice practically dripping in disbelief. “ _Really._ ”

“I just happened to see it, Enjolras, honestly!”

“I wasn’t aware you were a liar as well as a drunkard.”

Combeferre sighed and attempted to intercede once more. “He isn’t lying.”

“Of course he is, that’s not possible, unless—” He cut short, staring fiercely at Grantaire. Even in that moment of calm as he seemed to draw connections between the necessary pieces of information, Combeferre could see what he always saw in his friend, and what Grantaire had less-than-secretly adored. Enjolras was practically bristling with fire, flickering this way and that, always prepared to burn if need be. Combeferre was certain it was going to flare up one day and consume his friend. He merely hoped it wasn’t any time soon. “Grantaire.” he murmured, his voice a little awestruck. “Are you familiar with ‘Prufrock’?”

“I heard Jehan read it a few times.” Grantaire murmured, desperately trying to keep up his game of make believe. “I don’t know it very well.”  


“Quote it.”

“I don’t—”

“ _Quote it_.” Enjolras said again, leaning back against one of the tables and crossing his arms. When Grantaire merely stared back at him, he gestured for him to go on.

“‘Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient etherized upon a table; let us go through certain half-deserted streets—’”

“ _Hamlet_ , by Shakespeare, have you read it?” 

Combeferre knew for a fact that, though Enjolras didn’t know the Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock by heart, he knew Hamlet, because he’d been in a production of it once as the title character when they were teenagers. It wasn’t something he’d particularly wanted to do, Courfeyrac had dragged Combeferre and Enjolras to audition. Courfeyrac was the only one surprised when Enjolras was cast as Hamlet and he and Combeferre were assigned the parts of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

“Once.” Grantaire mumbled, dropping his gaze to the table in front of him. “But it was a long time ago, I don’t know it.”

“But you’ve read it.”

“...Yes.” He sighed. “I’ve read it.”

“Go on, then. ‘To be or not to be’?”

“‘That is the question.’”

“‘Whether ‘tis nobler...?’” Enjolras prompted. Combeferre had a feeling this would be taking a while, and though he listened, he decided he might as get some work done while Enjolras thoroughly tested his working theory of Grantaire’s eidetic memory—one that would indeed prove true.

Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut as if it physically pained him. The words tumbled from his mouth as if he couldn’t keep them there, and he wanted this (whatever ‘this’ was) to be over as quickly as possible. “‘Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them. To die, to sleep—no more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep—’”

“‘To sleep, perchance to dream...’”

"Aye.” Grantaire agreed, dropping his head onto his arms and hiding his face against the table. “‘There’s the rub.’”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras breathed, awestruck. “You’re practically a genius.”

“I’m really not.” The other mumbled, his shoulders visibly stiffening. “I just remember...everything?”

“Think of all the things you could _do_ with that.” Enjolras said wistfully, and his voice seemed to soften as he gazed at the drunkard. “How could you possibly sit here calling yourself pathetic, when you could be so much more than what you allow yourself to be?”

The bitter bark of laughter that emanated from R as he sat up was unnatural enough to make Combeferre look up, cringing at the ruefulness in the other’s tone. “What? I can read quickly, I can do long division in my head, I can remember, so what? I could be a lawyer, yeah? Like you were going to be? I could be a physicist. I could be ‘so much more’. My dad used to say the same thing. He also used to tell me I was some kind of freak of nature—after all, what super genius would want to do art? Don’t tell me, don’t you ever tell me, I could be more. Because all I want to be is able to forget. And I’ve forgotten how!” He laughed to himself, but it held no humor in it. Combeferre glanced to Enjolras, who had straightened and gone very tense, a kind of fury rolling off of him in waves.

“You think yourself a freak of nature?” He said, voice icily cold. Combeferre wondered how such a fiery being could pull off iciness so well.

Grantaire’s glare held a challenge in it. Whatever was coming next was not going to be pretty. Combeferre thought that maybe he should leave. He decided it would probably be better if he stayed, just in case of a medical emergency. That had been known to happen when the two got into it. Enjolras had broken his fist on Grantaire’s face once—and Grantaire had simply laughed that Enjolras had better take some boxing lessons from Bahorel.

“Go on and call up Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.” The cynic answered, glaring at Enjolras fiercely.

Enjolras returned the glare for a long moment, before crossing his arms and taking to pacing a line across the floor, between the various tables. He turned to face Grantaire abruptly, startling him. “Name the world’s population.”

“Haven’t I passed enough of your tests?” He asked, though he appeared to be visibly thrown by the question. ‘Ferre, too, was a little bit surprised, though he said nothing. The thing about Grantaire and Enjolras fighting was that one simply had to let it run its course.

“Grantaire.”

“About 7 billion.”

“And how many people in the world have a memory like yours?”

“It can’t be documented, Enjolras. That’s probably because people don’t like freaks. You learn to hide it, or you learn to become a physicist.”

“Take a guess, then.”

He sighed. “I read somewhere it was .3 percent of the world’s population.”

“How many people is that, approximately?”

“Does it matter?”

“To me, it does.”

Grantaire let his eyes fall closed for a brief moment, before opening them again and enunciating every syllable. “Twenty-one million, five hundred and eighty-one thousand, four hundred.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “ _Approximately._ ”

“About how many people are there in France?”

“65.7 million.”

“What percent is that of the world’s population?”

Another pause. “About 1 percent. Closer to .94.”

“So how many people in France have your memory?”

“You can’t know that, not mathematically, like you’re trying to—”

“Just answer my questions.”

“...one hundred and eighty-nine thousand.” 

“What percentage of France’s population has brown hair?”

That question seemed to throw Grantaire as well, though Combeferre sighed, seeing where this was going. “Enjolras, are you really going to make him—”

“Yes.” Enjolras interrupted, without looking away from Grantaire. “I am.”

“I don’t know.” The artist said softly.

“Combeferre?”

“I don’t want any part in this.” 

“Just ask Siri or something, would you?”

Combeferre rolled his eyes and tapped his fingers against his tablet for a moment, before lifting his head a murmuring, “19 percent. Is this going to take all night? Should I go ahead and leave? Because I’ve got about a thousand better things to be doing.”

Enjolras ignored him. “How many people in France have brown hair?” He asked Grantaire. 

“This is ridiculous.” The artist snapped, standing up so abruptly his chair nearly toppled over. “I’m not going to sit here and do parlor tricks for you. Do you want me to guess what number you’re thinking of between one and ten?”

Enjolras was across the room in a second, blocking the doorway. “I have a point to make and you’re not leaving here until I make it. Do you understand?"

Grantaire stared. Combeferre thought that it was a universal sign for lack of understanding, but their fearless leader refused to accept that as an answer. 

“Do. You. Understand?”

“I could stand here glaring at you all day, but I’ve got better things to do. Much like Combeferre. For example—” He turned on his heel, going to Combeferre and grabbing the bottle of liquor before either he or Enjolras could think about stopping him and took a swig. “Are we going to sit here until one of us decides to blink or what?”

“Do you want to test me?”

“That’s ironic, coming from the man who is quite literally testing me right now.”

“Do what I ask you and I’ll leave you alone.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because I’m proving a point.”

It was Grantaire’s turn to take up pacing.

“R.” Combeferre sighed. “You might as well. It’s not like you can hide it anymore. The faster you two get over yourselves the faster everyone can move on with their day.”

Enjolras glared. Combeferre shrugged. Grantaire wrapped his fingers in his hair in frustration.

“Fine. About twelve million, four hundred and eighty three thousand.”

“Combeferre, how many people have green eyes?”

“You know, I am trying to work.”

“‘You might as well.’” Grantaire mimicked, if Combeferre had been Courfeyrac he would’ve replied by sticking his tongue out at him. But Combeferre is not Courfeyrac.

“I’m just making sure my intentions are known.” He said calmly instead, readjusting his glasses on his nose. “About one percent of the world’s population.”

“How many people have green eyes in France?”

Grantaire sank into the nearest chair, resting his head on the table once again. “A little more than six thousand.”

“How many have both green eyes and brown hair in France?”

“Enjolras...”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re always serious. Does that make me Lupin?”

Combeferre laughed shortly, and Enjolras merely pulled a face, turning and glancing at ‘Ferre for explanation.

“You really are oblivious, aren’t you?” Combeferre sighed, rolling his eyes. He wondered briefly if he would be able to move on with his life faster if he stood on a table and screamed at Enjolras that HELLO, GRANTAIRE IS ACTUALLY IN LOVE WITH YOU. Enjolras probably wouldn’t believe him anyway. “It’s Harry Potter.”

“Is that really relevant?” The leader murmured, before deciding it wasn’t worth his time to figure out what the two had meant. He turned back to R. “How many?”

“According to the percentages Combeferre’s been reading to me? Eleven. I’m really not sure how accurate that is. Were you reading off of Wikipedia? You realize anyone can type those numbers on there and change whatever they want, don’t you?”

“They have regulations, now.” Combeferre pointed out calmly.

“Oh, yeah, sure, do you really think there are only eleven people in the entire country that may or may not look like me? That’s like saying my family’s the only people with green eyes and brown hair! And most of them don’t even have both!”

“Exactly.” Enjolras murmured, fingers brushing against Grantaire’s shoulder. “Now. Tell me how many people, in France, have green eyes, brown hair, and an eidetic memory?”

Grantaire looked up at him with something painful in his eyes that Combeferre couldn’t quite name, before abruptly pulling away from the touch as if it burned him. “No one.”

“I can tell you for a fact that’s not true.” Combeferre tried not to laugh at Enjolras’ completely serious tone. This certainly would take all night.

“Yeah, I know. You think so _highly_ of me.” He sounded disgusted. “But mathematically, that adds up to about .33 of a person. I’m less than a man even in that. After all, you’ve always told me that I’m less than a man, now I’ve got mathematical proof.” 

Enjolras slammed his hands on Grantaire’s table, causing him to jerk his head up and clutch his bottle of liquor to his chest. 

“No, I have _never_ said that to you, Grantaire. I have never.”

“Enjolras...” Combeferre began cautiously, standing slowly. He wasn’t sure what was quite going on between the two, who seemed to be having some kind of battle of wills. The two of them were inches from each other, as if they wanted to touch but a wall of glass kept one from the other. Combeferre was actually a bit uncomfortable with the whole situation. He wasn’t sure if they were about to start ripping out each other’s throats or sucking face. Either way, he wasn’t particularly fond of witnessing it. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, would’ve wanted a front row ticket. It was a very good thing Combeferre was the one who happened to be there, rather than Courfeyrac. Combeferre’s brow furrowed and he took a moment to push his glasses up his nose. “Do I need to leave you both alone for a moment...?” He was pretty sure Enjolras was about to climb over the table and attack Grantaire.

Combeferre thought that this must be what it felt like to be invisible.

“How many people are there in France, with brown hair, green eyes, eidetic memory, trust issues, a drinking problem, an a stupidly hilarious sense of humor, and a grin that lights up an entire room?” Enjolras said, his voice a little bit hoarse, he didn’t move away and neither did Grantaire. 

“One.”

“Say it.”

“There’s only one.”

“ _All of it_.”

“There’s only one person in France with brown hair, green eyes, eidetic memory, trust issues, a drinking problem, and a stupidly hilarious sense of humor, and a grin that lights up an entire room.” He didn’t look like he believed it.

“How many people in Europe?”

“One.”

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes before repeating the entire description again. He still didn’t look much like he believed it.

“In the world?”

Grantaire looked like he might be sick. Combeferre rubbed his face tiredly, sighing far more loudly than necessary. Enjolras didn’t seem to notice. Grantaire gave him a desperate look and he merely shrugged. He wasn’t about to get in the middle of Enjolras and The Thing He Wanted. He had enough experience with Enjolras to know that it was only in extreme cases would that be something which proved necessary.

“Again.”

He said it again.

And “Again.”

And “Again.”

And “Again.”

“How many times are you going to make me say this?”

“ _Again_.”

“Enjolras.”

“I’m going to keep asking you to say it until I’m absolutely certain you’ll remember it.”

The artist snorted and smirked up at Enjolras. Combeferre thought that they must have had some kind of gravitational pull that, between the two of them, was going to pull them closer and closer to each other until they ultimately collided. “I think we’ve made it extremely clear that I’m going to remember this whether I’d like to or not. I haven’t got much of a choice in that matter.”

“Then I’ll have you say it over and over again until you can’t hear the word ‘memory’ without my opinion of you coming to mind.”

“How many times do you think that’ll be? Because I need to piss.” 

“And there is a rally that needs to planned.” Combeferre chimed in cheerfully, and was promptly ignored.

“Say it again, then.”

Grantaire did.

“Again.”

“I wasn’t kidding about the needing to—”

“Again.”

Grantaire said it again. Grantaire said it so many times that they all lost count. Grantaire said it so many times that Combeferre knew it by heart.

“You’re going to have to stop some time.” The artist murmured eventually. He sounded exhausted. Combeferre could relate.

“I’ll stop when you believe it.”

It seemed like Combeferre might as well leave. This wasn’t going to be over any time soon. They _probably_ wouldn’t get violent. At this point it was a risk he was fairly willing to take. Maybe.

~

“Combeferre, would you do me a favor?”

Combeferre looked up from the speech he was trying to read. Why must everyone continue to interrupt him only when he was trying to get something done? Was no one actually productive anymore? It was like the meetings in the Musain were just some device used to further the plot of a strange sort of soap opera. Enjolras discreetly placed a key next to Combeferre’s tablet.

“Keep this key away from Grantaire.”

“It’s to the liquor cabinet?”

“It’s to the liquor cabinet.”

Combeferre looked over at Grantaire, who looked sick and exhausted. He had a glass of whiskey in his hands (which was good, as opposed to the bottle he normally held) and dark circles under his eyes. The tumbler shook ever so slightly as the artist lifted it to his lips. He hadn’t slept in a while, had he? “It seems like he’s already got his hands on the contents of the liquor cabinet, to be perfectly honest.”

“He's detoxing. That's all he'll be drinking today." He sounded very sure of himself to be talking about an alcoholic. 

"He's been doing well?"

"He's been doing well." Enjolras affirmed.

"He doesn't look very good. He looks sick. Perhaps you should let Joly handle this."

"That's part of the detox. I do actually know what I'm talking about, Combeferre. I've done research."

"Research."

"Yes, Combeferre." Enjolras sighed. " _Research_."

"So you're helping him get clean."

"You sound suspicious."

That's probably because Combeferre was suspicious.

"That's probably because I am suspicious."

Enjolras rolled his eyes, already beginning to turn around, before the words on Combeferre’s tablet caught his eye. “What are you reading?”

“Robespierre’s speech at the trial of Louis XVI.” Combeferre answered smoothly, thanking a number of higher powers hoping that whichever one was in charge of the Musain would let them actually get some work done, for once in their life. “I know you’re familiar. To the Convention of 1792? Though I’m not a fan of regicide or his participation in the Terror, I think that there are certainly things we can learn from the revolutionaries of the past.”

“I have read most of Robespierre’s speeches.” Their leader murmured softly, touching the screen and enlarging the words. He tapped the tablet a few times before bringing up Robespierre’s speech ‘Against Granting the King a Trial’, one that took place days before the one Combeferre had been reading, one that spoke so strongly of regicide that Combeferre was really hoping Enjolras hadn’t chose that one to be particularly symbolic. “He set the course for the trial itself with this speech, you realize?”

“I’m aware, yes.” 

Enjolras blinked slowly, looking up at Combeferre as if drawn from a trance. He knew his friend to be madly in love with liberty, equality, and fraternity, as well as France itself, but Combeferre was often taken aback by the extent of Enjolras’ passion. He was fairly certain the blond had read every text that impacted their country from the years of 1789 to 1799. “May I borrow this?”

Combeferre shrugged and nodded, watching as Enjolras carried the laptop across the room to Grantaire, startling the artist from whatever thoughts he’d been lost in. “You’ve got until the end of the meeting.”

“Is it Hamlet again?”

“Robespierre.” With that, Enjolras turned on his heel and went on with actually carrying out a meeting.

Combeferre couldn’t help but watch Grantaire read the text while simultaneously paying enough attention to Enjolras to throw in a snide remark every so often, a smile playing on his features even though he never looked up from Combeferre’s tablet. ‘Ferre wasn’t quite sure what game the two were playing at, but it was evidently one they’d played more than once. Judging by the curious glances of the rest of the Amis, he wasn’t the only one fascinated by it. 

They really would never get anything done. 

Eventually Combeferre fell into step helping to plan the rally in the upcoming weeks, how they would get the students involved, who of the Amis would be there (not Gavroche), assigning roles to make flyers and protest signs. For a meeting, it went remarkably swimmingly. It was the most they’d accomplished in months, at the very least. However, when he got up to collect his things and leave, he realized he was going to have to wait until Enjolras was done with his tablet or get it from him later.

Unfortunately, he didn’t trust Enjolras to remember where he put the thing down.

He sighed and decided that at least it would be entertaining to see how things played out. 

“‘Louis was kind and the Republic is founded; the great question which occupies you is decided by these words alone.’” Enjolras read, holding Combeferre’s laptop in his hands and leaning casually against Grantaire’s table.

“‘Louis has been dethroned for his crimes. Louis denounced the French people as rebels; to chastise them he has invoked the arms of his brother tyrants. Victory and the people have decided that he was the rebel: hence Louis can not be judged; he is judged already—’”

“Stand up.”

“As many times as you do this, one would think you would realize that it doesn’t affect my memory whether I am sitting or standing.”

“I’ll only believe that once I’ve proved it.”

Grantaire sighed and carefully pushed his chair back as he stood. He crossed his arms, and glared in Enjolras’ direction. “Are you pleased now?”

“Yes.” Enjolras said immediately without looking up. “And I can see you glaring at me.”

“I’m not—”

“‘Indeed, if Louis can still be the object of a trial, Louis can be absolved’...?"

“‘He can be innocent. What do I say? He is presumed to be so until he is judged. But if Louis is absolved, if Louis can be presumed to be innocent, what does the Revolution become?’ Do I really have to say the whole thing?”

“Until I’m satisfied, yes.”

Combeferre listened to this back-and-forth for a while before gently clearing his throat and asking for his tablet back. Both the artist and the leader seemed startled, as if they’d forgotten Combeferre was there at all. He sighed. Invisibility was apparently something he was going to have to grow accustomed to when it came to these two of his friends.

As he was leaving, he noticed the tumbler of whiskey had remained almost full on Grantaire’s table. 

 

~

Combeferre was walking to the Musain, planning to get there early this time so that maybe he could get Enjolras’ attention. Recently staying behind to speak to him afterwards hadn’t been working out very well in Combeferre’s favor.

His hand was on the door to the back room, ready to push it open, sure he would find Enjolras hard at work, forgetting to eat and generally just being Enjolras, when he heard the leader’s voice from the other side of the door.

“I want you to remember this, Grantaire. Will you do that for me?”

“How many times am I going to have to tell you I haven’t got any choice?”

“Shut up and let me have my moment for once, will you?”

“Sure, fine, I’m shutting up.”

“I want you to remember...my fingers in your hair...and your lips against mine..and...” 

Combeferre decided he really didn’t need to talk to Enjolras at the moment anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to Sebs and Suds.  
> Hope you enjoyed~


End file.
